


The World is Quiet Here

by kaguyahime7



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-02-24 08:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13210107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaguyahime7/pseuds/kaguyahime7
Summary: A collection of drabbles and short stories focusing on the quiet, but still important moments in life.





	1. Blessed Are The Meek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two returning characters reminisce about how Nonnatus changed their lives for the better.

“Now _this_ is a celebration!” chortles a slim, nattily dressed man. He carefully wipes sweat off his brow and beams at the bustling scene before him. “Happy jubilee Sister Evangelina,” he reads slowly. “Oh my, it seems we picked the wrong day to party crash!”

A small, slight woman appears behind him. She freezes at the sight of nearly a hundred people milling about and fiddles nervously with the plain gold band around her left ring finger.

“I think Sister Julienne would have both our hides if we trampled over Sister Evangelina's festivities, don't you agree?” he observes.

The woman chews on her bottom lip anxiously and glances around. A tentative smile crosses her face when she sees a broad woman in a woolen habit loudly berate the crowd for fussing over her.

“Sister Evangelina was always kind to me,” she says softly. “Although she did call me a clamp thief, once.”

“Dearest, by the time I left Nonnatus House, I'd say you'd stolen more than some clamps.”

The woman blushes furiously. She's been married for six months already but remains hopelessly tongue-tied around her husband.

“I still have the conch shell you gave me,” she remarks quietly.

“You darling, sweet woman! By the time we reach the United States, that shell will have traveled nearly ten thousand miles.”

A stray brown curl escapes from her tightly coiled bun and the man tenderly tucks it behind her ear.

“Are you sure you don't want to say goodbye? It may be your last chance to see all them together,” he says gently.

The woman mulls the situation over. Although she was only at Nonnatus House briefly, the people there made more of an impression than anywhere else she lived or worked. Jane Applebee-Thornton had been absolutely terrified of working with such a close-knit, spirited group of people. But the experience tempered her into something far stronger than she ever imagined was possible. She'd emerged from a silent, lonely life to one that was certainly less quiet, but all the more joyful. Her lack of loquacity only made her more endearing, according to her husband, because when she did choose to speak, it was never without significance. But finding a means to communicate her gratitude was still quite impossible for a woman of so few words.

Jane slowly removes a slightly wilted arrangement of sky-blue flowers from her valise and hands them to her husband. He examines the bouquet and nods approvingly.

“ _Myosotis scorpioides,_ ” he proudly declares. “Did you know that according to a German legend, this little flower was nearly forgotten by God when He named all the plants in the world? The flower pitifully cried out to Him, 'Forget-me-not, O Lord,', and He replied 'That shall be your name'. A quaint bit of local folklore, is it not?”

Jane smiles in response and points to a nearby table laden with gifts. John Applebee-Thornton cautiously sets the blossoms on top of a towering pile of presents and returns to her side.

“You are absolutely certain about leaving without a farewell?”

Jane nods steadily and loosens her grip on the valise.

“Sometimes words aren't needed between friends,” she states, and walks away with her head held high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few quick notes for this first entry:  
> 1\. I couldn't find a first name for Reverend Applebee-Thornton, so I just named him John.  
> 2\. I believe there was a deleted scene in the beginning of series 3 indicating Jane left Nonnatus for nursing school. I'm taking even more liberties with that and assuming she and the Reverend married at some point.  
> 3\. "Myosotis scorpioides" is the binomial name for the a subspecies of the "forget-me-not" flower. As for the naming bit, my grandfather (who is an avid gardener) told that me this story a long time ago.


	2. Silk and Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation between Sister Julienne and Sister Ursula during series 6 episode 1.

She's never hesitated to open this door before. Common courtesy dictates she at least knock before entering the office though. Despite the abruptness of recent events, she will not allow her sense of propriety to be stripped away with the rest of her administrative duties. 

“Enter.” The voice behind the door is clipped and curt. Sister Julienne wonders if she ever sounded so unfeeling when others were called into her office. 

“Ah, Sister Julienne. I had hoped to discuss the implementation of some...staffing changes for the near future.”

“Certainly. There is a need, more so than ever, with Nurse Franklin remaining at Hope Clinic.”

Sister Ursula purses her lips into a narrow line. “Actually, I was referring to contracting with another general practitioner.”

Sister Julienne's tranquil facade slips instantly.

“Why would you seek another physician? Nonnatus House has a long, deeply personal history with Doctor Turner.” 

A vein above Sister Ursula's left eye twitches. “Too personal, one could say. Frankly, I was shocked that you did not seek another doctor immediately after the debacle with the former Sister Bernadette.”

Anger flares in her chest. “That has nothing to do with Doctor Turner's capabilities as a physician or hers as a midwife.”

“Do you truly think so? I think it is shameful that you did not distance yourself from such a scandal. The man seduced a nun,” Sister Ursula spits vehemently. “To maintain contact with those two, especially Sister Bernadette, after she strayed so far from her vows is reprehensible. I hope you did not condone this forbidden relationship while she was under your supervision, despite your clear affection for the girl.”

Hot, raging grief rushes through her body. She did not react after the phone call from Mother Jesu Emmanuel announcing her demotion. She did not complain when Sister Ursula assigned her menial tasks for the clinic. But now, rash, violent thoughts pop into her mind and she struggles to maintain her composure. 

“You think I am being cruel,” she continues. “But what kind of example do we set by continuing association with those two? This place, the people who work here, they must conduct themselves in a manner above reproach. We cannot allow the reputation of Nonnatus House to suffer because you are overly fond of certain people.”

Sister Julienne stands abruptly and coldly states, “If you choose to follow through with this decision, I cannot be responsible for any of the ensuing consequences. The Turners are quite beloved in our community, as you have seen since your arrival. It would be terrible if something...unfortunate were happen between their departure and the arrival of a new physician.”

Sister Ursula's eyes narrow. “Are you threatening me? You are aware that I could report you for insubordination.”

Sister Julienne's muscles loosen and rational thoughts replace angry ones. This sudden shift in her demeanor from enraged to pensive is not what Sister Ursula expected. There is pity and unspoken sadness behind her gaze. 

“I am saying to be careful about your next actions here. I speak as someone who has carried the burden of leadership before. I know the crushing weight of responsibility and sacrifice for duty above self. And I trust you will make the right decision when all of the facts are lain at your feet.”

Sister Julienne departs, closing the door quietly and leaving with her last words still ringing in the ensuing silence. 

Sister Ursula crumples the blank sheet of letterhead in front of her and steels herself as she hears muffled laughter from the others downstairs.


	3. Star-Crashed Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sister Bernadette teaches Patrick how to ride a bike. Takes place during early series 2. Inspired by an answer to the "11 questions" for Simone on Tumblr.

She hadn't meant to get so personally involved in his life. It was pure coincidence that she happened to be in the right place during the right conversation. Overhearing the other nurses talking about poor Doctor Turner walking to all his appointments was completely accidental, really. She hoped the girls fail to notice the Pavlovian way her ears prick and her pulse races when she heard his name.

She casually inquired about his lack of transportation and learned that his MP had unexpectedly broke down a few days earlier. It wouldn't be that strange for her to help a fellow colleague by lending him a bicycle until his vehicle was repaired. Yes, she had no other motivation for meddling in this situation other than platonic concern for the man she can't seem to stop thinking about. 

But at clinic that afternoon, she's utterly confused by his rebuffs about borrowing a bicycle. He seems mortified that she broached the subject at all. He tried to gracefully extricate himself from the conversation until she pointed out the practical consequences of his stubbornness. 

She convinced him to meet her the following morning in the early hours before Lauds, when the streets would hopefully be devoid of curious onlookers and other distractions. She didn't dare tell anyone about her plan, certainly not her sisters or the other nurses. For a moment she's afraid he won't come, and she'll have to deal with the ensuing awkwardness for the rest of the day. 

But he does arrive, sweating and slightly out of breath. He's wearing a fetching forest green cardigan that she tries not to stare at too closely. The early morning air is chilly, but she's mostly sure that's not the source of her shivering. 

“I'm sorry I was so short with you yesterday,” he says quietly. 

“I may have pried too much when asking about the issue. You don't owe me anything, especially an apology,” she says. 

“Well, you've gone to some trouble to help me, so the very least I can do is let you in on one of my shameful boyhood secrets.” He casts a wary look at her bicycle. “I did learn how to ride a long time ago, but there was a nasty accident involving a dare, a blindfold, and a broken leg that put me off the activity until now.”

She's trying to not laugh at the image of him careening down the street. “At least no one was seriously injured?” she volunteers, attempting to see something positive in his admission.

He cocks his eyebrow and grins. “My pride was severely damaged, I'll have you know. I was the laughingstock among my friends for at least a month. They called me 'Can't Turn Turner'.”

“I feel as though we're doing something we shouldn't,” she says, slightly uneasy. 

“But that's half the fun—the element of danger,” he teases. 

She chuckles and walks her bicycle over to him. He removes his sweater and hands it to her without a second thought. She's proud of herself for not burying her face in the warm cotton-wool blend as the scent of Henleys, aftershave, and soap waft towards her. 

He straddles the seat of her bicycle clumsily, rolls his shirt-sleeves up, and kicks off into a slow, steady pace. He glances back to make sure she's watching. She waves and his grim expression instantly melts into a warm smile. 

His smile alone is enough to make her swoon. 

Her heart wobbles in unison with his stiff pedaling. “Don't forget to move your feet,” she calls out. “Yes, that's right, just keep pedaling up and down and maintain your balance by engaging your abdominal muscles.”

“It's an awful lot to keep track of, isn't it?” he yells. 

She tries not to overthink how nice his legs look struggling to stay upright and moving forward, or the way his back muscles strain against his crisp white shirt when negotiating a turn. Yes, she is definitely not staring or touching him more than is strictly necessary.

Oh, but the sight of his hair ruffling in the breeze is so very eye-catching, as he shakily reaches the end of the block and swiftly pedals back towards her. 

“I think I've got it!” he shouts.

The rush of excitement is akin to a successful delivery after a challenging labor. Is this how parents feel when a child learns to walk on their own? 

That heady surge of adrenaline and affection is the last thing she remembers for awhile, as he fails to brake properly and crashes into her with a resounding clamor of metal and rubber and plastic. 

“Sister! Sister Bernadette, oh God, I'm so sorry!”

He's on top of her immediately and she thinks this is the closest their bodies have ever been. As she drifts between consciousness and darkness, she envisions herself riding pillion on the bicycle with him. The sun is shining, there's music playing from an unknown source, and she's laughing like a carefree girl in love for the first time in over a decade. Bright, blurry bits of light frame his distraught face as he gently cradles her head in his lap. Faintly she recalls the last time there was a cycling disaster involving a member of Nonnatus House and how well it ended then. 

In all likelihood she has a mild concussion, but she's still smiling as he lifts her into his arms and sprints for help.


	4. A Ring of Endless Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on how the Nonnatuns found out about Patrick and Shelagh's engagement.

“This is isn't what it looks like, Sister Evangelina, I swear!”

The nurses gasp and shriek as Sister Evangelina bull-rushes towards Patrick. It's just his luck that he's wearing a red scarf today. His box of dental floss clatters to the ground as she pins him against a wall. She pinches the box between two fingers and throws it on the table with the speed and aim of an Olympic shot-putter. 

“And what, pray tell, did I interrupt?” she snarls. “Are you planning on raiding our home and stealing our women like some kind of wretched Roman legionnaire?” 

Trixie and Jenny burst out laughing and shoulder each other gleefully. Cynthia groans and prays for the phone to ring. 

“Don't make it sound so tawdry,” says Trixie, stepping in between and holding Sister Evangelina at bay with her arms. “He isn't trying to start a harem or something else so tacky.”

Patrick, meanwhile, starts to look for the quickest escape route before Sister Evangelina murders him with nothing more than brute strength and a length of floss. 

“I just needed their help,” he tries to explain. “I'm trying to determine the size for Shelagh's ring and I thought they could help me with the measurements—” 

“Ring? She just left the Order, you daft man! Don't you think she needs a little time to figure her life out first before you pounce on her with all sorts of expectations?”

“I love her,” he blurts out. The girls all sigh dreamily at the sincerity in his voice. “I want to marry her, if she'll have me.”

“What in heavens' name is going on in here?” asks Sister Julienne dryly. She serenely enters the kitchen and glances at each of them with a pleasant, but somewhat glacial look. 

Trixie, Jenny and Cynthia sprint out of the kitchen like it's on fire. Sister Evangelina glares at Patrick one final time and storms off in a silent huff. Patrick, slumped over in defeat and embarrassment, flops carelessly into a chair and rubs the back of his neck.

“It's all my fault, Sister, I'm sorry for causing a commotion.”

She can barely hear him as the apology gets partially lost in the thick wool of his muffler. Shaking her head wearily, she withdraws a small silver ring from her pocket and closes Patrick's hand around it. 

“This belonged to Sister—Shelagh, I mean, when she was still with us. I believe a jeweler will be able to size a new ring appropriately with this as a model.”

“You still had her ring?” he says with a touch of hope in his voice. 

“Of course. I thought...perhaps it would be of some use in the near future for the two of you.”

She's blinking furiously and forcing back tears that she refuses to show anyone, especially him. He tries to stammer his gratitude but everything comes out in a garbled mess. 

“I know you do not share our faith, Doctor Turner, but you and Shelagh will always be in our prayers. I wish you both all possible happiness and joy on your upcoming nuptials.”

Their eyes meet in silent understanding, and it feels as if he's received an answer to a question he's been terrified to ask for weeks.


	5. Role of a Lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A venture in AU-land where Shelagh's sweet disposition hides a darker secret.

It all started with her mother's sudden death.

There were not enough hours in the day for Shelagh's father to manage his greengrocer business and dote on his only child after her mother died. As a result, Shelagh spent hours playing by herself in the back stockroom when not in school. She wasn't lonely though. She had a fine collection of dolls and stuffed bears and they were regular guests to the imaginary world Shelagh created in that room.

Her mother had the story-telling skills of a medieval bard and Shelagh loved to act out these tales over and over again. She shifted into each character seamlessly and shed the roles as easily as a snake casts off its skin. Re-enacting the stories was Shelagh's way of keeping her mother's spirit alive, and her father saw it as a harmless coping mechanism. He was a man who took pleasure in life's simpler aspects and left it to his daughter to dream of a life beyond the grocery doors.

When Shelagh turned eighteen, her father had a sudden pain in his chest and collapsed to the ground like a broken marionette. Suddenly the only ties she had to her home were a matching pair of simple wooden crosses atop a green hill. She left for London after the funeral, seeking the safe anonymity that large cities promise to young girls with nothing much to lose, except for a bit of innocence.

She was easy pickings for MI-5. Churchill nearly eviscerated the agency during the war and it struggled to lift itself out of dire straits. Even before the dust settled from World War II, there was a growing need for a different kind of operative now with the intelligence community turning its attentions to the slow-burning threat of communism and the Soviet Union.

She previously eked out a meager living performing in jazz clubs and small-time theater productions. The initial agent who approached her in the dead of night said she could be so much more than one of a hundred girls who a little bit of talent and a sweet, songbird voice. She could be a part of something greater for the simple price of her soul. A Faustian bargain, indeed.

Shelagh, according to her control officer, was the most sublime coquette. A flawless, unblemished ingénuethat could be molded into whatever was needed in the name of democracy and freedom.

The one bit of input she had during her training was an accident. Her handlers originally planned to keep her locally as a secretary or shop girl. In a flippant moment, she joked about being a nun instead. Even the name she suggested, Sister Bernadette, had been plucked from a melodramatic film in which the long-suffering heroine died of tuberculosis.

It was the perfect cover—hiding in plain sight as a nun and midwife. Her superiors suspected socialism could spread like wildfire in poorer neighborhoods, and her new assignment placed her in an ideal position to “accidentally” overhear the mutinous rumblings of the downtrodden.

There was also a more ephemeral quality about her that her superiors couldn't quite quantify. She had a voice like an angel and the visual palette of a sweet English rose. People couldn't help but trust her, and in due course, confide all their deepest, darkest secrets. It was an innate trait that could not be replicated in other agents short of drastic psychological re-programming. She would be a midwife, they decided, and before she could protest the surrealism of the situation, they packed her off to nursing school and eventually novitiate training.

The tuberculosis diagnosis was an unfortunate setback. It appeared that forcing herself to remain “in character” as Sister Bernadette had taken a physical toll on Shelagh. This was not one of her fairy-tale roles that she could slip out of at the end of the day. She had to maintain her cover indefinitely and not drop the deception for a second, lest all her training and hard work go to waste.

Everything started going sideways after she went to the sanatorium. It was that damn nurse who nearly ruined everything by deeming her the “international nun of mystery”. Shelagh learned long ago to remain cool, calm and collected in any situation, but her fingers itched to silence the busybody to prevent the spread of gossip.

And yet, despite ten years of a perfect performance, she'd fallen prey to the most common spy cliché in the books. She'd fallen in love.

She agonized over the issue during the lengthy convalescence. She eventually concluded that no one was more respected than Doctor Turner, and his wife could have unfettered access to all kinds of intelligence that the home office would eagerly lap up. A nun may have been shielded by divine protection, but a respectable doctor's wife, beloved by the community, was just as promising a role. She was always one to challenge herself with different parts in a play, and loving Patrick would require the least amount of effort since she had genuinely come to care for the man and his precocious boy.

The newspapers are abuzz lately with narratives of secret Soviet spies who hide in plain sight until called into action. Sleeper agents. Such a quaint term for a deep cover assignment with a nebulous tenure. She's like Sleeping Beauty, dancing in the forest without a care in the world until her voice and beauty ensnare her target. She's fallen asleep for a hundred years by pretending to be someone she's not. And at night, her dreams are only occasionally interrupted by the terrible nightmare that the man she loves will discover her entire life has been a lie.


	6. Cipher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cynthia's journey will not be easy, but she finds hope with an unexpected visitor. Set after series 6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks, content warnings for this entry include mentions of depression, anxiety, past traumatic events, and mental illness in general. There is nothing graphic but these topics are definitely featured throughout the story.

What's your name? 

This was a question Cynthia Miller answered confidently for over twenty-five years. She had been a shy child, prone to hiding behind her mother's skirts when in the company of strangers, but she could always at least answer that simple question when prompted. She had asked the Northfield staff and other patients to call her Cynthia for now. It seemed easiest to default to her given name when everything else in her life seemed so uncertain.

She tried to forget her time at Linchmere, but memories of the hard bed in the electroshock room, the unsettled mutterings from the other patients, and her own personal anguish seemed to have followed her here at least in the beginning. When Doctor Turner left her in Barry's care months ago, she initially felt confident that this was the place where she would rediscover herself. A new beginning and a clean slate was the first step in the right direction, he told her, and she repeated his words like a broken record until nightfall came that first day.

She smothered her screams that night with a starchy-clean pillow. She dreaded having a doctor or nurse overhear her, pin her down, and pump her veins full of the tranquilizers that would submerge her into a drug-induced, dreamless sleep. Panic and anxiety raced neck and neck in a contest that would have no winner as soon as she turned off all the lights in her room. For weeks she cried herself to sleep while trying to recite her prayers for Compline. She avoided eye contact to forgo explaining her persistently red-rimmed eyes. She marveled at how truly miraculous the human body was. She cried so much that surely she had depleted her body's reserves of water and salt by now.

Now, however, she's making progress. It isn't sinfully prideful of her to make that assertion. The electroshock treatments at Linchmere left her mind buzzing incoherently, but now there's a quietness to her thoughts that hadn't been present since before she was attacked. She doesn't wake up each morning and think of what could go wrong that day. She finds joy in small accomplishments again. Part of her mind still feels blurry and hopelessly opaque though, like a pane of glass that she can never get clean enough.

One of her doctors asked that she keep a journal while recuperating. They wanted her to imagine being well again. But how was that possible when she couldn't even sleep without all the lamps turned on in her room? She closes her eyes at night and it's as if she's back by the docks again, thinking she's perfectly safe because she was doing God's work. She smells the scent of river water mixed with a man's stale cologne and it overwhelms her senses. She can nearly taste the salt from his sweaty hand as he covers her mouth to silence her cries.

The doctors are persistent with their requests and she attempts to comply with their treatment, but her first few entries read like a cryptic code with no known cipher, and for the first time in her life, she cannot fathom solving this seemingly impossible puzzle.

She used to love puzzles. As a child, she and her father steadily plowed through all kinds during the cold winter months. Jigsaw puzzles, mathematical riddles, crosswords—there were few things that brought her more delight than to hear her father gushing about her clever mind. They would camp out at the kitchen table, a steaming pot of tea between them, finding answers in a jumble of information that was indecipherable to others. She dropped the pastime after entering nursing school, but she picked it up again recently to keep herself awake on nights where she minded the phone. It soothed her to start with a sheet of anagrams or logical puzzles and solve them by sunrise. If only her own life could be as simple as putting random pieces together to form a wholly cohesive picture. 

At least one piece to her puzzle has been filled in. She has regular contact again with her friends and sisters. Their letters are chatty and full of cheerful anecdotes, and the vast majority are a balm to her wounded spirit. Their words are comforting and the wishes for good health and wellness ring sincere. But even with this wealth of fair tidings, there is one voice who remains frustratingly silent and closed off to her. Will she ever hear His voice whisper guidance in her ear again?

Strangely enough, it's the letters from Shelagh that she can't bear to read lately. Even when she was Sister Bernadette and hovered in a precarious position between the nurses and nuns, Cynthia still counted the woman as a dear friend and confidante. Resentment colors how she views that friendship now, as she reads Shelagh's deeply personal letters describing her own wilderness, her personal journey through a fen of doubt and spiritual crisis.

It's different though, Cynthia cries silently. Shelagh had someone on the other side to pull her into the light. Cynthia has her faith, the love of her fellow sisters, but she feels as though her sanity has broken into a million inscrutable pieces. She does not even know where to begin to solve this puzzle, and that notion is frightening enough to blunt her progress. Despite being surrounded by doctors, nurses, patients, and her friends in spirit, Cynthia has never felt more alone than she is now.

And then, on an otherwise ordinary day in April, something unexpected happened.

Cynthia spends the early part of this particular morning in quiet prayer. She misses many things about living in Nonnatus House and tries to be faithful to her religious observances. At that particular moment what she misses most of all is the graceful rise and fall of voices singing the _Gloria Patri_ as sunlight gradually fills the chapel during Matins.

A knock on the door briefly startles her reverie. Barry pops her head in and winks conspiratorially. “You have a visitor,” she says cheerily. “And it appears she did not come empty-handed. I'll bring her up if that's all right with you?”

This was a surprise, since her guests normally came in the form of letters. Cynthia nods weakly and picks at invisible lint specks on her cardigan as the sound of purposeful footsteps grows louder in the hall.

Her stomach knots briefly at the unforeseen change in her routine. She may be feeling more upbeat lately, but sticking to a regular routine—religiously, she notes ironically—is part of what keeps her motivated to carry on. She rises before sunrise and prays, followed by a quiet breakfast with the other patients and staff, and then a peaceful stroll in the gardens until noon. She can fill her lungs with the sweet aroma of roses, wild lavender, and honeysuckle while making a slow loop around the grounds. Her fair skin is dotted with a field of freckles now. Fresh air and exercise used to be considered a cure-all for many types of illnesses, and although she has enough modern medical knowledge to know otherwise, part of her believes both have helped her immeasurably.

The door opens again and she grasps the nightstand to steady herself. A tall figure clad in a cranberry-red sweater and a sky-blue nursing uniform gingerly ducks inside, carrying a large wicker basket bursting with baked goods, books, and what appears to be a child's drawing carefully taped to the front. Late morning sunshine beams through her bedroom window and illuminates a few gray hairs that weren't there the last time Cynthia saw this person.

“Chummy?” Cynthia wonders disbelievingly. Her voice, hoarse and weak from irregular use, breaks the silence between them. Chummy closes the distance between them in two broad steps. But when she's just about arm's length away, she pauses abruptly, unsure if embracing her friend would be an unwanted gesture.

“How did you find me?” Cynthia asks haltingly. “I thought Doctor Turner and Sister Julienne were the only people who knew I was here.”

“Shelagh telephoned me,” Chummy replies, furrowing her brow and nervously pushing up the nose-piece of her glasses. “I thought of writing first, but everything I put down sounded terribly vacuous. You know me, always lacking in social etiquette one way or another.”

Silence rests awkwardly between them, a kind of muteness among two friends who have been apart for too long and have lost much of the easy camaraderie that bound them together.

 “I brought a few presents, just some little things to keep one's spirits up. Books, nibbles, that sort of thing. There's a drawing in there too from Freddie. It's supposed to be a cat, but I haven't the foggiest clue why he colored it green.”

 She picks out a book at random and offers it slowly to Cynthia, and the act is achingly similar to her girlhood attempts to coax stray kittens into eating from her palm. “I remember you toiling away at those word puzzles and thought they might be the perfect touch of home.” She flinches slightly as Cynthia hugs the book to her chest and lets out a single shuddering sob.

 “Peter of course told me happened at the docks. But I was in the dark for recent events. I'm the worst kind of friend for not coming sooner.” 

Cynthia tugs anxiously at the neck of her cardigan. “You don't need to apologize,” she murmurs. “Doctor Turner was right about this place. The doctors and nurses are kind, and it's a peaceful place to think about where I might go next.”

“What about Nonnatus House? Surely everyone would be overjoyed to have you return home.”

Cynthia frowns. “I don't think I can go back there yet.”

“Oh.”

Cynthia shakes her head and stretches her mouth into an approximation of a smile. “You don't have to tiptoe around everything, Chummy. We're still friends, aren't we?”

“Of course,” Chummy stutters.

“How are Freddie and Peter? Freddie must be starting primary school soon, correct?”

Chummy beams and immediately whips out a stack of photographs from her purse. “This is a photo from his last term at nursery school. He looks so much like Peter in his little suit that it drives me to tears.” She flips through the stack and finds another photo of Freddie on a tricycle. “Thank goodness he takes after his father in all things athletic. One shudders to think of that poor child learning how to ride a bicycle from his catastrophe of a mother.”

A laugh escapes from Cynthia's mouth before she even realizes what's happening. She covers her mouth, embarrassed at the sound, and Chummy visibly relaxes. A single tear falls onto Cynthia's lap and she grimaces at the offending droplet.

“Sometimes I forget that everyone I care about is moving on with their lives. It's been rather easy to forget about the outside world here. Sometimes I think to myself, perhaps today will be the day that I feel well enough to go home. But then I wonder if I even know where my home is anymore.”

Her fists clench the thin coverlet. “The doctors keep telling me that the depression will fade eventually. They talk about dozens of model patients who overcome this dark cloud over their lives and return to their families whole again. I've prayed, wished, even cursed myself for not being strong enough to find a way to cope with these feelings. It's an awful, lonely road and I don't know how much longer I can walk it by myself.”

Chummy withdraws a clean handkerchief from her pocket and slowly wipes Cynthia's face clean. The mattress groans as Chummy sinks onto the bed beside Cynthia.

“I felt something quite similar when Mater died. Time slipped away faster than I wanted it to, and even though we made it somewhat right in the end, there's still a horrible hole in my heart every time I get a whiff of Nivea cream or see a dress in a store window she might have fancied. But the world kept turning even when I tried to stop and have a good, long cry, or wallow in depression. There were times that simply putting one foot in front of another was a Herculean task.”

She sighs tiredly and rubs her eyes, and Cynthia suddenly notices the bluish-black circles that are magnified by her glasses. “But Freddie needed his mother more than I needed time to grieve. And Peter is a dear and tries to understand, but he cannot fathom why I would mourn a woman who consistently put a continent between herself and her only child. He's very much of the pull-yourself-together mindset. One cannot say for certain that there is magical moment when the so-called dark cloud is replaced by sunny skies again.”

She covers Cynthia's hands and gives them a single, gentle squeeze.

“But I continue moving forward,” Chummy says resolutely. “Despite my grief and sadness I persevere. And you will too, because you are one of the most courageous people I know. It will take time, of course, because nothing worthwhile comes easily or quickly, but I am absolutely certain you will feel normal again.”

She clears her throat and stares steadily at her friend for the first time all morning. “I cannot even begin to imagine what you are going through, and I will not be disrespectful and make assumptions about how you are coping.”

Cynthia's trembling fingers go still under Chummy's steady grasp.

“I just wanted to say, you are not alone.”

A tiny bit of hope blossoms in her heart.

Later, long after Chummy departs, Cynthia lies completely still in her fully illuminated bedroom. With a trembling hand, she pulls the chain attached to her bedside lamp. Shrouded in twilight, she closes her eyes and waits as all of her anxieties roar in her ears.

She pictures all of her dearest friends standing with her. The sight of them obscures all other things. Hundreds of roughly cut puzzle pieces fall beside them and wait patiently to be reassembled. Warmth floods through her body and the gnashing sensations of panic and terror gradually subside. Their hands slowly move together with hers and begin to put the pieces of her life back into place.


	7. Paper Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick and Shelagh exchange gifts for their first anniversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A (belated) present for ginchy, the fairy godmother of my current WIP, who recently celebrated her one year Turnadette-versary. <3

The streetlights were beginning to illuminate the neighborhood when Patrick shuffles through the front door. Only a year or so ago, he would dump his coat and bag on the floor without a second thought after such an exhausting day, but now he keeps his bad habits to an absolute minimum and dutifully arranges his coat on the rack. He yawns and stretches, wincing at the cracking sensation of his back and shoulder muscles loosening after twelve hours of tending to patients.

He calls his wife's name and frowns when she doesn't reply. He walks dejectedly into their living room and gasps when he sees the remnants of a wonderful feast on the table. Two candles, burning low and bright in polished brass holders, dribble bits of wax onto the tablecloth and silently reprimand his tardiness.

Shelagh shifts on the couch nearby and sleepily pushes a blanket off her lap. The hem of her skirt is deliciously wrinkled and he tries not to drool at the creamy stretch of her exposed thighs. She rubs drowsiness from her eyes and reaches for her glasses on the table.

“Patrick? What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty, darling,” he replies, kissing her cheek and dropping into a chair, utterly exhausted.

She moves to stand behind him and kneads a bit of fatigue from his shoulders. She winces at the stiffness and hardened knots that thread through his trapezius muscle. “How is Mrs. Smith? Did she end up at the hospital for a cesarean section after all?”

_Dear God, her hands are the cure to end all cures for his weariness, he thinks._ “She did, and it's a good thing Nurse Miller went with her in the ambulance. Poor woman, frightened out of her mind with the idea of being cut open, it was a miracle that Cynthia was able to calm her down enough for transport.”

She pats his back and moves towards the kitchen. “I left a plate for you in the oven. It shouldn't take very long to warm up again.”

He shakes his head and grasps her wrist, pulling her into his lap and burying his face in her neck.

“I'm sorry to be home so late. I knew today was a special occasion but I let work come between my family and I again.” 

“No wallowing,” she warns, rapping his nose lightly. “There was an emergency and anniversary or not, you were needed. The children and I would never resent you for that.”

“That reminds me. Would you be a dear and grab something from my bag? There's a small parcel I need from there.” 

She leans back and cocks an eyebrow. “You need it this very second?” she asks skeptically.

“Yes,” he enthuses. As disappointed as he is when her warm body leaves his lap, he knows the end results will be worth the temporary deprivation.

“Is this it?” she queries, returning with a package wrapped in white paper and tied with a slightly wrinkled blue ribbon. She turns it over a few times and holds it up to light as if to see through the thin paper covering. “It looks like a book of some sort, but why is it gift-wrapped? Did you buy this for Timothy or Angela?”

He rubs his hands together nervously. “No, it's for you. Open it.”

She purses her lips and is about to give him a witty retort, but his anxiety stalls her reply as she gently loosens the ribbon and unwraps the gift. Enclosed is a small, slate blue notebook. She glances at him in confusion. He nods and gestures for her to open the book and read its contents.

_The generous demeanor you have with all patients_

_The smile that stretches across your face when I've said something foolish_

_The strength you show in the face of adversity_

_The joy you find in small accomplishments_

_The beauty you radiate under a starry sky_

She gasps audibly and quickly looks at him. Each line is meticulously written in Patrick's tell-tale scribbly handwriting. Tears blur her vision and she quickly swipes them away lest they drip onto the paper and smudge the words.

_The lullabies you sing to calm me at night_

_The meals you cook that taste a hundred times better than Dad's_

_The spongecake you bake that always turns out perfectly_

_The things you teach me to grow up and be a good person_

Patrick grins and jerks his thumb towards the children's room. “Tim and Angela wanted to contribute too. Well, Tim 'interpreted' what he thought Angela would want to say. I think it'll be rather obvious which ones he came up with on his own, though.”

_The gentle kisses you bestow to me each morning_

_The silky texture of your skin against mine_

_The lilting way you say my name when we're alone_

_The quiet moments we share together_

_The perfectly appropriate ties you select for me_

_The stillness you brought to my chaos_

_The love you give me, unconditionally_

“It's a list of all the things we love about you,” he says with a touch of pride. “There's three hundred and sixty five total, one for each day of our first year of marriage.”

He rubs the back of his neck anxiously and ponders if he went overboard with the gift. Coming up with an entire year's worth of reasons why he loved her wasn't the most difficult part. The only trial, in fact, had been wracking his brain and Tim's thesaurus for words that described how he felt. Even the finished work didn't seem to capture everything he wanted to convey.

“I'm afraid my gift isn't quite as sentimental,” she says, blushing madly. “In fact, it's downright embarrassing in comparison to yours.”

He hugs her tightly. “You didn't have to get me anything. Having you as my wife is a gift that keeps on giving.”

She furtively glances down the hall and tilts her head, listening for any sounds or signs of distress from their sleeping children. When blessed silence answers her, she abruptly rises from his lap for the second time that night and pulls him into a corner, hushing his protests with a single finger to his lips.

His eyes—and another much lower body part—bulge uncomfortably as she slowly, achingly so, unbuttons the front of her dress to reveal a whisper-thin black bra. The soft fabric cups dip invitingly into her cleavage and his gaze is lost in the intricate lacy pattern that starkly contrasts with her smooth and pale skin. He's absolutely, positively, and definitely certain that he's never seen this item of clothing on his wife before.

She pushes away from him and sashays towards their bedroom. She calls over her shoulder, “It's still our anniversary for another hour.” His mind is hopelessly blank as she disappears into their darkened room and leaves the door open just a crack. A small part of his brain wonders when she learned how to walk like _that_.

None of that matters now though, as he rushes into the darkness blissfully happy that he came home late tonight.


	8. Evensong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was one thing for her to be Sister Bernadette and be his friend. It was completely another for her to be Shelagh, living in his home, eating with him at every meal, stealing kisses from his father in the dark, hidden corners of their home." Shelagh, Timothy, and adjusting to life under one roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to ginchy, for listening to my ramblings and guiding the plot along.

All was right with the world, Shelagh thought, as she lazily stretches her arms and arches her back. She purrs like a contented cat as her muscles and tendons gradually shift from stiff to slack with each movement. Clad simply in her nightgown with a pair of Patrick's woolen socks on her feet, she feels a sinful sort of pleasure at her idle state this evening. A steaming cup of tea generously sweetened with honey sits beside the stack of medical journals she plans to read while waiting for Patrick to return from an emergency call.

The evening certainly hadn't started this idyllic and that memory gives her pause while sipping the tea. The bedroom door is open just a crack and small river of light cut through the darkened hallway towards Timothy's room. A quick glance at the clock tells her it's been over three hours since an emergency telephone call interrupted their dinner and ended any notion of a quiet Saturday night with just the three of them. As Patrick hurriedly donned his shoes and coat, he insisted Shelagh and Timothy continue to eat and not wait up for him. A worry knot tightened in her stomach when the front door closed behind him. That knot constricted considerably when she turned around and saw the fleeting look of disappointment on Timothy's face. A look that was quickly masked by casual indifference when he caught her looking at him. A look that made her heart break a little bit all over again because a boy's father had to take care of someone else's family besides his own.

Shelagh found herself somewhat mystified in how to salvage the situation. It wasn't that mealtimes at Nonnatus were formal or stilted in conversation, but there was only so much to talk about with a ten-year-old boy, like school, his friends, something funny he'd seen on the television or a pudding he wanted to try. Shelagh couldn't remember the last time she had a conversation with Timothy when Patrick wasn't there to serve as a buffer.

Dinner passed quickly after Patrick's departure, with the silence only occasionally broken by a clink of silverware against plates and Timothy's request for seconds on pudding. After helping Shelagh clear the table and set aside a plate for his father, he announced his plan to read in his room and go to bed early. Before Shelagh could ask if he wanted to read in the den with her, Timothy was already out of the room and closing his bedroom door quietly.

Her maternal instinct—if it could be called that—bristled at the thought of a normally cheerful boy spending his Saturday night in silence. But then she chastised herself instantly for the thought. How presumptuous could she be, thinking that she had any kind of maternal instinct after one month of living with Timothy and his father. Was this another boundary she was fated to cross, like the one precluding anything except platonic professionalism between a nun and a widower?

She rose from the bed and hovered uncertainly at the bedroom door, suddenly restless about the situation.

Things had been different at home for Timothy, to say the least. Starting on her first official morning as Mrs. Turner, Shelagh meticulously prepared lunches for Timothy and Patrick that consisted of simple sandwiches and fruit. Much to Timothy's surprise, however, Shelagh cut the sandwiches into triangles whereas Marianne sliced them into even halves. Two weeks ago, Shelagh started to use a different laundry detergent and saw Timothy sniffing uncertainly over his clean clothes now and then. And then there were the times Timothy walked into the kitchen and narrowly avoided seeing his father locked in a rather compromising position with Shelagh. Those incidents, she thought guiltily, could not be counted on just one or two hands.

Timothy was always polite around her, saying his 'pleases' and 'thank yous' like a proper young gentleman. He was always complimentary about her cooking and the general tidiness of the house. But part of his demeanor felt forced. He would be this over-polite to a guest, someone who had a finite period staying at his home. It was one thing for her to be Sister Bernadette and be his friend. It was completely another for her to be Shelagh, living in his home, eating with him at every meal, stealing kisses from his father in the dark, hidden corners of their home.

A loud crash and the tinkling sound of broken glass startles her into action. She sprints down the hall, sliding a bit in Patrick's too-large socks, and bursts into the kitchen slightly breathless with adrenaline.

Timothy turns around. His face, at least the portion that is partly illuminated by the refrigerator light, is full of shame and embarrassment. She's rather sure the other half is equally troubled. A dribbling line of milk snakes a thin trail out from the carton and around his bare feet.

“Are you all right? What's happened” she asks in a rush, running to him and checking for cuts or other injuries.

“I couldn't reach the glass,” he mumbles. “Normally I can climb on the counter and get it off the shelf, but these got in the way.” He glares disparagingly at his discarded calipers. He brushes her concern off like—well, spilled milk, she rues.

“Why didn't you come and get me?”

“I didn't want to bother you. I can take care of myself.”

She gingerly guides him around the tiny shards of glass that glitter menacingly on the floor and into a chair.

“You know you can always come to me for help,” she says soothingly, sweeping the glass out of sight and into the dustbin. “We make a rather good team, as I recall.”

“It's different now,” he mutters. “You weren't married to Dad when I needed your help last time. Besides, I've had to learn to be good at all sorts of things since my Mum died.”

“There's nothing wrong or weak about asking for help, Timothy.”

“Dad always says, 'Learn to be independent. One day you might be on your own.'” He absently kicks his feet beneath the chair as Shelagh pours two glasses of milk and sets them on the table.

“That sounds like something my Da would say to me. He was a bit like your father, always working and always short on time for other things, like his family.”

“Was he a doctor too?” Tim asks, a hint of curiosity peeking through his previously morose mood.

“No,” she shakes her head. “He was a greengrocer. But they have a lot in common with doctors too. We were the only store for several miles, so business was always brisk and people depended on his services to keep the town thriving. After my mother died, he leaned on me a lot more and I had to grow up a wee bit faster than other children.”

Timothy drains his glass with a satisfied slurp and wipes away a milk mustache with his pajama sleeve. “Your Mum died too?”

“Yes, about when I was your age now. And losing a parent or a wife does not mean the rest of the world needs you any less, so we had to carry on as best we could.”

“You probably had to help him like I help Dad,” Tim concludes, nodding emphatically at the idea of toiling away indoors instead of carousing with one's friends.

“I did, sweeping the floors, cleaning equipment, stocking fruits and vegetables.” A laugh escapes from her lips as she inspects a bowl of fruit on the table. “There was this one day in particular that stands out to me, even years later. I was rather cross with Da because he had a large shipment of fresh produce that needed to be sorted and stocked by the end of the day. Unfortunately, I rushed through the task and neglected to consider one of the most important laws ever.”

“Which one?” His eyes widen at the possibility that one of the most responsible adults he knows could do something remotely heinous.

She picked up a waxy red apple from the bowl and tosses it to him. “Gravity. An entire pyramid of apples came crashing down on a poor man who was just trying to pick one from the middle of the stack.”

“So it was an apple-lanche?” Tim catches the apple with two hands and grins toothily at her.

Shelagh snorts back a laugh and winks conspiratorially. “You should save that one for your father, he'll like to hear it.”

Tim mulls her words over and stares at his empty glass. Shelagh ponders the old adage about glasses and basing one's outlook on life on their fullness or lack thereof.

“Things are always going to be different now, aren't they?” Tim says slowly, feeling the statement out and the implications his words may bring.

“They are,” she agrees. “But not in any manner that is disagreeable to you, I hope.”

“It just feels kind of strange, having you here all the time. Not a bad way,” he adds quickly. “I like that someone else is here if Dad has to go out for an emergency. But even though I know you're here too, I still feel really lonely when Dad leaves. It didn't bother me before. I must sound really stupid, missing my Dad like a scared little kid.”

“Admitting such a feeling is anything but stupid. It takes a powerful kind of strength to do so. That's a kind of vulnerability that no one particularly likes revealing to others, especially if it's someone they're close to, liked a loved one.”

She leaves him to his own thoughts for a moment. In all her days of hoping and longing for a family—this family, she realizes—she never stopped to consider what her life would be like after achieving this happy ending. She prayed for guidance and sought counsel from those dearest to her, and thought she could close the book on such uncertainties going forward. And hearing Timothy, struggling in that precarious spot between an independent child and one who just wanted to have his family whole again, struck a too-similar chord in her that could not be ignored.

Loneliness was a strange wee beast, as her mother used to say. It could start as something small and harmless, yet quickly mutate into an overwhelming force that swallowed you whole. Shelagh Mannion rarely had moments alone. Oh, she would spend time in the stockroom by herself or mind the register while Da was out, but she always knew he would return with a smile and some sweets for his best girl. Sister Bernadette regularly spent her evenings in reverent solitude with her Bible and silently murmured prayers. Shelagh Turner, however, had yet to discover what to do with herself these days.

“May I tell you a secret?” she asks, rinsing their glasses and leaving them to dry on a towel.

“Sure.” She hears the careful click and snap of his calipers and their weary creaking as he stands.

“Sometimes I get lonely at night too.”

“But why? You have us now, we're your family.”

“I know, Timothy, and I love you and your father dearly for that. But loneliness isn't a feeling that goes away overnight or after a few weeks. It can linger even in the company of others, even with the fine company I have at the present moment.”

He smiles at her and offers his hand. She takes it, gladly, and silently escorts him back to his room. She's been in here frequently, but never for longer than it took to gather a pile of dirty clothes, or quickly dust his desk, or straighten the coverlet on his bed. It looks different in the dark, smaller somehow and slightly more vulnerable. Like Timothy, she thinks, as he removes his calipers with practiced ease and climbs into bed. She perches carefully by his feet and tucks the blanket up to his chin.

“Would you mind if I stayed here for a wee bit? Just until I feel a little better.”

“That's fine with me,” he says shyly. “We could read a book together. Mummy and I used to do that when Dad was gone before.”

Shelagh beams at him. “I would like that very much.”

His foot jiggles anxiously beneath the thick blanket. “Do you like Tolkien?” he asks.

“I've never had the opportunity to read any of his books,” she says. “Reading for pleasure isn't a pastime I've enjoyed for a long time.”

“Dad got me The Lord of the Rings for Christmas last year.” He points to a well-worn tome on the shelf across from his bed. Shelagh retrieves the book and hesitates before sitting again. Timothy shifts and points to a small opening next to him. “Come sit next to me. That way we can take turns reading.”

Shelagh ignores the thudding in her chest as she settles between Timothy and his bedside table. His body is much heavier than the babies she was accustomed to handling as a midwife. It felt more real, somehow, the mass of little boy leaning in and trusting her to support his weight.

“Um, can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” she says, paging through the book until she spots a cloth bookmark denoting their starting place.

“Can I call you Mum? It feels weird not calling you Sister Bernadette anymore, but you're married to Dad now and it just...feels right.”

She tries to hide the absolute feeling of joy that washes over her face at his simple request. She kisses the top of his head in a half-hearted attempt to conceal the happy tears that pool behind her glasses.

“I would like that very much. Thank you, Timothy.”

He gamely accepts her kiss and begins to read aloud:

_“All that is gold does not glitter,_  
_Not all those who wander are lost;_  
_The old that is strong does not wither,_  
_Deep roots are not reached by the frost”_

Yes, Shelagh thought, all was right in the world again.


	9. To Another Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I chose a path beyond Nonnatus because that was what was right for me. But it doesn't have to be the same for you.” A speculative exploration of a seaside discussion between Sister Julienne and Shelagh about choices and misty roads. Takes place during the upcoming 2018 Christmas special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a promotional picture for the upcoming Christmas special during the trip to Chichester.

Calling this outing an impromptu trip to the beach would be a lie, Shelagh thinks. And lying was wicked, but it is one of the petty, venial sins frequently committed for the so-called greater good.

She hoped God would forgive her this small transgression since it was done with the best of intentions.

The sandy beachfront is utterly deserted when the two women arrive. It is just as well that they are the only two people here, since an audience is the last distraction Shelagh needs to accomplish her task.

It was surprisingly easy to convince Sister Julienne to go for an afternoon drive. After a day spent in solitary, contemplative silence at the Mother House in Chichester, Sister Julienne seemed eager to escape the confines of their quarters. If anything, she seemed to delight in the novelty of Shelagh driving at all. It was a recent skill she acquired, but somehow Shelagh had an uneasy sense it was yet another widening in the divide that separated her and Sister Julienne.

They have their choice of parking spaces nearby. Shelagh is silently grateful that she does not have to parallel park the hulking vehicle into a narrow space. That would have taken up precious time she needed for another, far more important purpose. Their pace is brisk as they exit the car and stride across the paved lot. A worn, wooden bench set against a driftwood fence appears to be their mutual destination.

“It has been quite some time since you sat me down for a serious talk,” Sister Julienne says, a note of humor in her voice. Little frigid air puffs hover continuously between them as they settle side by side on the bench.

“Perhaps I wanted to get some fresh air,” Shelagh replies lightly. She shivers, unable to keep the icy breeze from seeping through her thick coat and muffler.

The weather is cold, much more so than Shelagh expected when the idea for the spontaneous outing popped into her head. Her folded hands may have been frozen in the unheated little chapel during Matins that morning, but her mind was suddenly ablaze with possibilities.

Choosing this particular beach for a visit was not a coincidence. It was late summer the last time she was here. Days, months, even years later, if she stood quite still and closed her eyes, she could faintly smell the warm, briny air and hear the gently crashing waves. That had been the night Shelagh Mannion tucked away the final remnants of her former life in a peeling leather suitcase. When she awoke in the morning, it was Sister Bernadette who departed for Poplar without a hint of regret in her heart.

“My dear Shelagh, there is an abundance of fresh air at the Mother House. Unless there is a particular health benefit to sea air that you have yet to share with me, I cannot help but assume you desired to talk with me alone, very much outside the earshot of our Sisters.” Sister Julienne coughs discretely and casts a sidelong glance at Shelagh.

The woman had always been able to read Shelagh like an open book. Sister Julienne rarely hesitated to intervene if there was anything troubling her, but she was swept up by the others as soon as they arrived at Chichester. Mother Jesu Emmanuel's illness had loomed like a heavy scythe over everyone. The final swift blow was coming and all they could do was wait for the inevitable.

“I hope this trip has not been distressing for you. I would imagine it feels a bit strange returning to the Mother House as a married woman.”

Shelagh smiles wryly. Some of the older sisters remembered when Sister Bernadette first came to Chichester—her lovely voice, which soared on invisible wings through psalms and requiems; her quiet but firm sense of compassion, which manifested through her calling as a midwife; her strong faith, which burned brightly even after she lost her way in a wilderness for a time.

Still, nearly all of the women present at their arrival struggled to conceal their shock when Shelagh Turner stepped out of the driver's seat with Sister Julienne at her side. Her butter-yellow coat seemed garish set against the endless sea of sobering blues and grays. And there were the novitiates, huddled and chattering like a nest of baby thrushes. Since her arrival, Shelagh heard these younger girls whispering about her, the prodigal daughter who traded her godly life for a different set of eternal vows.

“Were you able to speak with the children earlier? Sister Hilda mentioned you telephoned Doctor Turner this morning.”

“I managed to catch him in between fixing breakfast and tying Angela's hair ribbons.” Shelagh chuckles when remembering the harried conversation with her husband. The children were all right, he managed to not burn the house down while cooking, and they all sent their love to her, even little Teddy, who babbled happily when Timothy put the receiver to his ear.

“That is a relief. I know little Angela was mildly upset when you departed.”

'Mildly upset' was a generous euphemism for Angela's reaction the day before. When Shelagh gently explained about leaving for just a little while, the poor girl cried and clung to her waist until the very last possible moment. Not even the promise of making a gingerbread house with Sister Monica Joan could soothe her as the car pulled away from the house. It was barely dawn when she left, but there was just enough morning light that she could clearly see Angela waving tearfully in Patrick's arms.

“Everyone is fine,” Shelagh finally says, unable to verbalize her residual guilt.

She felt Sister Julienne relax beside her. Her back, which had been ramrod-straight since the moment they sat down, eased slightly. Her gaze seems to stretch beyond the sand, further than the choppy waves and on to the sun slowly sinking into the sea.

“We should consider leaving soon. I was informed the vote is scheduled for tonight.”

Now it is Shelagh who visibly stiffens. Her fears and concerns about the reason for their visit, previously at a low simmer, now violently boil and churn in her stomach.

“I don't want you to leave,” she whispers, hoping the words are drowned out by the crashing water. A sudden gust whips up the sand at their feet. The impressions in the sand from their shoes vanish as the wind sweeps the indentations away in the blink of an eye. Her eyes begin to water and she initially blames the stinging mixture of sand and cold air, but in her heart she knows the tears stem from a deeper, much more emotional source.

These words have a selfish, almost childish ring to them. It was a statement Shelagh certainly heard from Angela when the child wanted just a few more minutes to cuddle before her mother left for work. Those precious last moments together seemed to assuage her more than any empty promises of being back soon. But in this case, there was a distinct possibility that the other person might not return home despite Shelagh's pleas.

The dark water recedes and launches itself again and again onto the shoreline as silence remains with them as an unexpected, uninvited guest. Shelagh nearly jumps out of her skin when Sister Julienne's warm hand covers her own clammy one.

“Do you recall our conversation at Saint Anne's?”

A flash of surprise crosses Shelagh's face. “Of course. I spoke to you then about wanting other things in my life and being lost in a wilderness. But this is your wilderness, your test of what to feel, what to believe.” She rubs her wedding band absently. The sensation of the smooth silver ring against her trembling fingers gradually eases her nerves.

She removes her glasses and dries the tear-stained lenses with her sleeve. But she manages to smile when remembering how she found her way out of the wilderness. “It turned out to be more of a misty road than a wilderness in the end,” she adds.

“What did you see when you emerged from the mist?”

Shelagh sees Timothy, wide-eyed and so very young, sticking his head out the back window of Patrick's MG and waving until his arm was numb. She can nearly taste the musky scent of Patrick's coat as he wrapped it around her like a talisman against all of her worries.

“I saw a life with Patrick and Timothy. I chose a path beyond Nonnatus because that was what was right for me. But it doesn't have to be the same for you.”

The last curve of the sun sinks into the sea. A pair of gulls cry off the distance as the first night stars slowly alight in the dusky sky.

“What do you think you see beyond the mist?” Shelagh asks hesitantly. She could speculate on God’s Will for hours if this were anyone else’s choice at stake. She does not dare to say anything more. She could not bear the idea of forcing Sister Julienne to make a decision that was not fully her own. The desire to return to Poplar as a pair rather than alone burns hot in her chest. But she remains silent, choosing to channel all of her inner strength towards her mentor, her friend, the person who was a constant beacon when she was lost at a crossroads long ago.

“There are two letters in my cell back at the Mother House. One is an acceptance for the position of Mother Superior. The other is a rejection, along with a request to immediately resume my duties at Nonnatus House.”

She stands abruptly. Shelagh stares in confusion as Sister Julienne strides through the sand and towards the inky water. Sea foam lathers in a pool around her feet as Shelagh hurries to join her, stumbling in the uneven texture of sand and dirt. A wave undulates off in the distance and slowly gains speed and height as it rushes towards them. Two hands clasp firmly together as it crashes and dissipates back into the ocean.

“We’ll need to rise early tomorrow, if we plan on arriving home in time to see Angela and Sister Monica Joan’s confectionery masterpiece.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ginchy for helping me perfect the ending.


	10. Rash Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick has an unfortunate horticultural encounter.

It really was beginning to look a lot like Christmas, Patrick thought, as he shoveled another heap of snow into the street. Little lacy flakes with the most delicate, see-through patterns spiraled down from the sky, melting instantly and dissipating once they reached his heavy coat. 

A wistful glance towards the house sank his spirits slightly. With only a few hours this afternoon to decorate their home for the holidays, Shelagh was clearly making a better effort than he. She was a veritable blur behind the thick sliding door, stopping for just a moment to stir something on the stove top before rushing to wrap a lurid green garland across the mantle. Sister Julienne offered to mind Angela and Teddy that afternoon. Shelagh had hesitated, hating to burden an extra responsibility on her dearest friend, but Sister Julienne was quick to disavow any trouble. She insisted this was a perfect opportunity to spend time with two children who were especially precious to her, and thus Shelagh was convinced. 

Still, even with the limited time available, Patrick found himself dawdling with his assigned task. Shelagh was inside doing the work of three people while he tried to shovel away snow and thoughts of having a quiet lie-down cuddled beside his wife. Even before their family grew from three, to four, and most recently to five, they rarely had moments alone. They slept in the same bed every night, but it had been well over a month that he wanted to do anything than sink into an exhausted, dreamless slumber. 

He glanced briefly at his watch. They still had a good two hours until it was time to fetch the children from Nonnatus. Shelagh had been cooking for nearly an hour, and based on the alarming amount of paper snowflake chains and twinkling lights in his living room, she was nearly done with decorating.

A pointy bit of greenery in his pocket managed to stab his hip briefly. He bought the little sprig of mistletoe at the same lot as their Christmas tree. All afternoon he envisioned holding it over Shelagh's head and the look of surprise on her face. His hands burned and tingled in a slightly uncomfortable manner, most likely from the heavy exertion of excavating his yard from beneath the latest snowfall. A thin band of red discoloration on his wrist peeked out from the bottom of his glove. It was probably due to the sudden exposure of warm, sweaty skin to the frigid outside air. 

Two hours. Even at his ever-advancing age, he could finish shoveling this blasted snowdrift if the ensuing reward was a sweeter-than-sugar kiss from the woman beyond the glass panes. She looked lovely in any situation, it wasn't anywhere near a lie to think that, but he thought she was particularly beautiful with a string of softly glowing fairy lights hung behind her. 

With a satisfying thud, he cleared the last bit of snow from the yard and into the street. His body rapidly warmed as he re-entered the house and stripped off his gloves and coat. After working up a sweat in the freezing cold, it was startlingly disorienting to suddenly be in a rather toasty living room. Before Shelagh could bustle over to take his coat, he hurriedly removes the mistletoe and conceals it behind his back.

“You must be so cold after all that work,” she says worriedly. “Here, come sit by the fire and I'll get you some tea.”

“In a minute.” Now's as good of a time as any, he guesses.

She pauses. A knowing smile twitches on her lips when he pulls her close with one hand. 

“What have you got behind your back?” she teases. “A secret bit of Christmas cheer you found out in the yard?”

He grins and positions the mistletoe above their heads. But instead of the sweet kiss he imagined earlier, she gasps and wrenches him beneath a nearby lamp. In the process of shedding his outer layers, he failed to notice the increasingly red rash stretching from his knuckles down to the wrist. An angry array of blisters are nestled between his fingers. 

“Oh, Patrick!” she gasps. “Did you touch something with your bare hands?” She is meticulous in examining his hands without making direct skin-to-skin contact. “I know there isn't giant hogweed or monkshood back there, but is there any chance some kind of tree sap got onto your hands today?”

Words fail as shame washes over him. A romantic gesture gone terribly awry, that would be the memory of this particular Christmas for years to come, for sure.

“The only thing I touched without gloves was this mistletoe I bought at the tree lot,” he explains. “But it's impossible! I've never heard of contracting dermatitis from mistletoe.”

She shakes her head while leading him to the bathroom, still clutching his shirt-sleeve instead of his hand. “It's certainly a rare reaction, but then again you're a rare sort of man.”

She turns briefly to wink at him before pulling a roll of gauze, paper tape, and a tube of hydrocortisone cream. A groan escapes him as he settles on the rim of the bathtub. This was definitely not how he wanted to spend those precious hours with just the two of them. 

“At least the children aren't here to see me in this sorry state. I can hear Timothy making a crack about 'A mistle-oh-no, eh Dad?'”

But she manages to surprise him despite the sudden downturn in their afternoon. He adjusts his weight on the cool marble surface to support her weight as she eases onto his lap. She manages to smooth the ointment across and wrap his hands in less than a minute. He clumsily tries to hold her waist but the thick gauze causes his hands to slip away. Chuckling under her breath, she steadies his padded grip and seems to revel in the novelty of gazing down into his eyes, rather than upward. 

Her kiss tastes of icing sugar, sweet enough to make him swoon, forget his poor choice in seasonal horticulture, and rekindle that spark of Christmas joy once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a gift fic for the 2018 Nonnatun Holiday Card exchange. Happy holidays everyone!


	11. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long overdue reunion for Sister Monica Joan.

The hunger ate away at her. It gnawed through each intestinal lining like a plague of locusts. She was never one for long fasts during Lent and the other prescribed dates. One would not deprive the soul of spiritual nourishment, hence it could be reasoned that it was unnaturally cruel to withhold sustenance from the body. Unless this invisible beast had its appetite whetted soon, all of the occupants within Nonnatus House would be privy to the onerous rumblings resonating from her belly.

A clock chimed outside. Sister Monica Joan silently counted each peal as a pitiful distraction from her ravenous hunger pangs. She would rise for morning prayer soon, but there was certainly enough time to sneak downstairs for a small nibble. Snacking after dark was not explicitly forbidden by the Lord, at least to her knowledge. Delicious thoughts of soft chocolate biscuits and warm butterscotch pudding were plenty incentive to stir her bones into action.

The nights always seemed cold lately. All of the sisters' rooms contained stark furnishings and limited possessions, but Sister Monica Joan had a plentiful supply of warm blankets and hot water bottles. She would protest the material excessiveness of her quarters if not for her constant fatigue. In fact, it had been some time since she felt well enough to venture further than her bedroom door. When she was a younger sprite of a woman, it felt like there were not enough hours in the day to accomplish all of her tasks. Now, all she wanted to do was lie very still and rest, spending more time asleep than with the rest of the waking world.

The bare floor was pleasantly warm when her feet came down from the bed. The thick woolen socks she wore at night seemed completely unnecessary. As she stepped into the darkened hallway and shuffled to the stairs, she could hear a faint metal clanking coming from the kitchen.

She paused on the stairs and breathed deeply to clear her sleep-addled mind. Her weight shifted while exhaling and the wooden step beneath her creaked ominously. How very strange, she thought. That problematic step was towards the bottom of the stairwell, and she traditionally required at least one pause to rest before reaching there. But lo, here she was at the aforementioned location without a hint of weariness to slow her descent. Perhaps that morphine drip courtesy of Doctor Turner was reinvigorating her tired old bones after all.

A contented sigh escaped her lips when she neared the kitchen. The sinfully luscious aroma of melting sugar and butter called to her, and like the foolish sailors on the Argonaut, she would swim through any dangerous waters for a chance at such happiness.

The hallway grew steadily warmer. Fred must have finally fixed the aging heater after months of sporadic breakdowns. A warm breeze seemed to push her through the threshold. Did he replace the light bulbs for some reason as well? The kitchen was dazzlingly bright, almost painfully so, full of pure white light that nearly blinded her.

Strong hands take hold of her arm and guided her to a chair. "I am not an invalid," she insisted loudly. "And I will certainly not require assistance to consume the delightful morsel that drew me from my bed."

"It'll be a sad day indeed when you need help eating your weight in cake."

Her hands flutter to her heart. That voice—the brash, teasing tone that chided her habit of overindulging in sweets, but managed to blend in enough love so the reprimand was as gentle as a summer rain.

The table is set for three and a pained cry falls from her lips. Her eyes struggle to focus as the kitchen comes into view. Sister Evangelina swipes a single tear away and busies herself with slicing pieces of cake. Barbara sets a fork next to Sister Monica Joan's plate and squeezes her hand lightly.

"Welcome home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ginchy for the brainstorming sessions! <3


	12. Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday fic for ginchy, who wanted Patrick and Shelagh from the "7:00 to Poplar" story and a pair of reading glasses prominently featured.

“I can't believe you forgot your glasses!”

Shelagh huffs in frustration as they scamper off the bus. It takes her two fast strides to match Patrick's hurried gait down the street. Her appreciation for his long, lithe legs quickly evaporates as she has to sprint just to keep pace.

“I'm just not used to carrying them around on a regular basis,” he calls back. “Some of us are getting accustomed to this hassle for the first time.”

She stops. A frown darkens her brow and he turns around, looking puzzled after the sound of her sneakers scuffing on pavement fades away.

“What's that supposed to mean?” she asks, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms defensively. She doesn't think the comment was meant to be unkind or a personal attack against her, but it stings nonetheless.

He jogs back to meet her, rubbing her arms until static electricity crackles in the air. Her frown trembles and flips into a smile as tufts of his hair rise due to friction. “I just meant that I'm old and forgetful sometimes, love.” He pecks her quickly on the cheek and dashes up the front steps to his practice.

She rolls her eyes at the semi-apology and follows him inside. A thud and subsequent string of curse words meant Patrick neglected to turn on a light before rummaging around his office. She flicks the corridor light switch and rests against the peeling wallpaper. A stale odor of dried alcohol wipes and Patrick's preferred coffee blend lingers in the hall.

“A-ha!” he shouts. The glasses are raised triumphantly like a trophy above his head. The office door clicks shut behind him as Shelagh pushes herself up from the wall and claps slowly at his elation.

“At last, our quest is complete and we can finally return home,” she proclaims dryly.

He waves off her sarcasm. “What time are we expected at the community center?”

He leans next to her and rummages through his briefcase. The flyer he pulls out is wrinkled with a rather large coffee stain on the bottom, but seems mostly intact. Shelagh coughs pointedly when he squints to read the small print.

He groans and reluctantly dons the glasses. “The program begins at seven.”

The crumpled flyer is refolded carefully and tucked into his pants pocket this time. Her phone chirps once with a reminder about Timothy's play in an hour. Normally she struggles to hear the alarm in here, but the office is unnaturally quiet when devoid of the constant cacophony of patients and staff, causing Shelagh to feel like a trespasser rather than a regular visitor. Only the sounds of muffled paper and rapid typing on her phone breaks the unnaturally silent reception area.

“Shall we grab a quick dinner? We can get something to go for Tim to eat later,” she suggests.

He inclines his head sideways. She glances up at him and sees a mischievous grin forming.

“We don't have time for _that_ ,” she hisses, instantly knowing his thoughts and blushing furiously despite the dim lighting.

“Don't we?” he proposes, utterly nonchalant.

She slides her phone back into her pocket. “There's a chip shop midway between here and the community center.”

“I'm feeling peckish for something else.” His hand slides up her shoulder and traces small circles around her clavicle. The fine hairs on her neck straighten abruptly with each sweep of his fingers. Her pulse point throbs faster beneath his touch, heat flaring through her skin despite the moderate indoor temperature.

“Patrick!”

The ending consonants of his name are several pitches higher than normal with the addition of his mouth along her collarbone. Both of their bags fall to the floor as he turns and pins her against the wall, proceeding to the soft piece of skin at the nape of her neck. With practiced ease, he threads a finger up through her ponytail and slowly pulls the hair tie loose. He takes a moment to savor the scent and bury his nose in the soft golden strands. His free hand deftly unhooks the buttons on her coat and slides beneath her thin cotton top, resting his palm against her abdomen and savoring the warmth of skin-to-skin contact.

A low rumble gurgles from her stomach. She smiles sheepishly and kneads her belly to cut off the noise.

“Are you hungry?”

Her eyes are bright, two identical blue pools that are no longer narrowed in frustration over his forgetfulness, nor widened in shock at his brazen attempt to have her in the deserted hallway of his office.

“Famished,” she answers, settling her hands behind his neck and pulling his face to hers. He clutches at the thin, gauzy fabric of her sweater as she opens her lips slightly to allow his tongue to dart though. The heater was turned off hours but he is plenty warm as Shelagh half-moans and pushes herself even closer into his arms. Subtlety, especially when his wife's hands are roving under his shirt, is particularly over-rated.

The tension from their unexpected errand mixed with pent-up desire was a dangerous combination, particularly when he momentarily considered the impropriety of being caught in such a place. Heavy breathing and a needy kind of humming from Shelagh dispels any lingering thoughts of proper behavior for a man of his age and occupation.

Shelagh pulls away and rests two fingers tentatively on the button and zipper for his pants. He glances down to her meticulously buffed nails, which look smudgy and unfocused through his lens of hazy desire. His breathy request for her to continue is met with a cynical grin, as she reaches with the other hand to remove his reading glasses and dangle them in front of his panting face.

“Did you forget your glasses on purpose?”


End file.
